It Might as Well Be Spring
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Sentinel Jim Ellison is miserable with springtime allergies, and takes it out on Blair. Set some time after the episode "Sentinel Too."


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was originally written in the late 1990s, so technology is not at a 2017 level. Please pardon that fact.

 **It Might as Well Be Spring**

 **By**

 **EvergreenDreamweaver**

Early Spring in Cascade, Washington. Sunshine, and puffy-cloud-dotted blue skies which would soon – all too soon – revert to dark clouds and downpours of cold rain or even snow squalls. Pretty little flowers popping out of the dirt, challenging the March chill. Maple trees and oak trees and flowering ornamentals, all putting forth swelling buds…. _POLLEN, damn it!_

Jim Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City, sniffled and rubbed his itching nose. _They weren't so bad when I was a kid_ , he grumbled to himself, _why the hell did they have to get worse as an adult?_ He knew it was temporary – as soon as the trees stopped madly producing their version of pheromones, it would be forgotten for another year – but that didn't make it any easier to put up with at the moment. Add in the heightened senses of a Sentinel, and it made for complete misery. His eyes and nose itched unmercifully, and his nose felt stuffed up and runny at the same time. His sinuses were clogged, resulting in a headache of monumental proportions and earaches in _both_ ears. All his molars throbbed, and the habitual spasmodic clenching of his jaw made the pain infinitely worse.

And his senses were as erratic as they'd ever been. Half the time he couldn't hear what was said to him at close range, the other half he was flinching at sounds occurring three blocks away. Vision was sporadic, with the fluorescent lighting in the bullpen either too dim or so bright it was painful. Taste…well, better not go there, especially combined with the aching teeth!

In other words, Detective Jim Ellison was as grouchy as a grizzly bear just emerging from hibernation, and spoiling for a fight. And he didn't much care who he picked it with.

 _Sandburg can advise me to dial down as much as he pleases, but dialing down doesn't really help much._

It wasn't the _smell_ or _taste_ of pollen, after all; it didn't make noise, it wasn't bright, and he certainly wasn't _patting_ it! So he couldn't control what it did to him! _So much for Sandburg's advice! So much for his worth! He can't help me with it…._ Jim knuckled his itchy eyes and snarled beneath his breath _. And to top it all off, Sandburg's not even here to try to help me cope!_ Somehow, he didn't quite register the faulty logic of his reasoning – if his Guide's advice was worthless, then why did he want him here?

Jim looked at his watch, looked at the door to the hallway, and scowled blackly. Sandburg had promised he'd be here by noon, had assured Jim that whatever it was he was doing over at Rainier University would be finished before lunch. Even though Blair couldn't really help with the pollen allergy thing, his mere presence usually made Jim feel better, feel more in control – and if nothing else, it gave Jim someone on whom to take out his frustrations!

 _Ah, there he is._ Senses that five minutes before were all over the charts, came online with an almost-audible _blip_. Jim caught his partner's familiar heartbeat; and he drew an involuntary breath of relief as the elevator doors slid open and Blair emerged, looking somewhat frazzled in his blue jeans, black tee shirt, and leather jacket. Although Jim was seeking surcease from his problems, in the form of his Guide, he couldn't help noticing the frown creasing Blair's forehead. _He looks like_ _he_ _has a headache, too._ Without even thinking about it, the Sentinel scanned the younger man's vital signs, and was troubled. Blair's respirations and heartbeat were just slightly elevated, and he felt… _chilled_ , somehow. Concern warred with Ellison's self-pity, and for the moment, concern won.

Blair dropped into his customary seat and eyed the detective closely. "Jim – you doing okay, man?"

"I'll live," Ellison muttered. He hated to admit all the things that were wrong, that hurt, that he desired Blair's help in easing. And today, he perversely hated admitting that his partner's close proximity was the key to making him feel better. Characteristically, he attempted to turn the question back on his questioner. "How about you, Chief? You look kind of tired."

"I am," Sandburg admitted, stuffing his backpack beneath Jim's desk. "I thought I was helping set up an exhibit, but when I got there I discovered I was expected to organize and detail the whole thing, including all the information cards for the artifacts!" He sighed dispiritedly. "I don't mind doing it – I mean, I wouldn't have minded doing it if I'd been asked ahead of time! As it is – there goes all my free time for the next three days!"

Jim scowled. He wanted his Guide with _him_ over the next three days. He definitely didn't want Blair, who already looked pale and tired, being overworked and overextended, frantically preparing data for an exhibit of ancient artifacts at Rainier University. He reluctantly admitted to himself that if Blair Sandburg was going to be overworked and overextended, he selfishly wanted it to be on behalf of one Jim Ellison, Detective and Sentinel; or if absolutely necessary, on behalf of the Cascade Police Department!

But now Sandburg was reverting to his first topic of concern: "Jim, please, you look awful, man – tell me what's wrong!"

Ellison sighed. When it came to a Sentinel's welfare, his Guide was like a dog with a particularly cherished chew-toy; never let go of it! Well, might as well just get it over with and tell him; Blair was almost always good for sympathy, anyway. "Allergies," he muttered. "Pollen. I hate spring!"

"Uh-oh." Blair laid a comforting palm against his partner's bicep. "And for allergies, dialing doesn't work much, does it?"

"It doesn't do jack," Jim groused. "I'm dyin' here, Sandburg!" He sniffled, pathetically. "My sinuses are killing me, my teeth hurt, my ears hurt, my eyes itch….And I don't dare take anything; at least not while I'm at work."

"You could take something for the pain," Sandburg suggested, rubbing small, soothing circles on the Sentinel's arm. "And you could dial that down, couldn't you?"

"I tried," Jim mumbled. "Dials won't work. Everything's out of whack!"

"Your senses are off?" Now Blair was worried as well as sympathetic. "Jim, maybe you need to go home. Would Simon let you take the afternoon off, d'you think?"

"Dunno…maybe. There's not much going on here," Jim said optimistically, casting an eye over his desktop. "Most of our paperwork's caught up. Maybe we could take off early—"

"Good—" Sandburg murmured. Before he could say anything more, a voice interrupted their conversation.

"Ellison – Sandburg. My office, gentlemen." Captain Simon Banks was standing in the open doorway of his office, a saccharine smile on his face. With matching sighs, Blair and Jim obeyed the summons.

"No."

"Jim, I'm sorry."

"Simon, I WON'T!"

"Ellison, I am sorry, but it's the next case and it's your rotation."

"GARDEN GNOMES?" Jim vainly tried to control his voice. It rose despite his efforts. "You want me to investigate stolen GARDEN GNOMES?" He caught a tiny choking sound off to his right, and glared at Blair, who steadfastly stared down at Simon's desktop, not meeting his irate Sentinel's gaze. "Simon, what have I done that deserves this kind of treatment?"

"Jim, you haven't done a thing – I'm telling you the truth. It just happens to be the latest thing sent to us, and you and Sandburg are the team that get it – you're caught up on everything!"

Ellison sank back into his seat, his bloodshot blue eyes fastened in horror on Banks' face. Simon might say he was sorry, and he might even sound convincing – but Jim could see the evil glint in his captain's eyes. Simon was enjoying this!

Jim's temper, always touchy, was just this side of major eruption. His head throbbed, his eyes and nose itched, his ears hurt, his teeth ached…and his captain – someone he'd considered a good friend – was assigning him to investigate a case involving the theft of _lawn junk_! "Simon, I – this is ridiculous. How did Major Crimes get saddled with this, anyway?" He gestured at the thick file folders. "This has been going on for  months!"

Banks sighed. "I know, Jim. But there was finally a break in the case – a witness finally got a visual and a partial license plate. As I said, we're caught up, so the case got sent here."

Jim was seething. "I'm not going to waste my time hunting down garden gnomes!"

"and birdhouses…"

Ellison jerked his head around, his ice-blue eyes narrowing into the patented Ellison Glare. "What was that, Sandburg?"

Blair didn't look up; his head was bent over an open file, and his dark curls obscured his face from Jim's vision. Very softly, he repeated his words. "Birdhouses too, Jim. Birdhouses…and whirligigs. Um…flamingoes. And birdbaths. As well as the…statuary."

Jim stared at the riotous curls, and heard the amusement lurking in that soft whisper. He turned his head and looked at Banks, who was chewing on an unlit cigar and trying very hard to keep from laughing out loud. At any other time, Jim Ellison might have laughed too, and he and Blair would have taken the case and very probably made short work of it. But not this time. This time, the already-miserable Jim felt an unreasoning desire to retaliate for what felt like total humiliation. And even though he _knew_ he was reacting badly, the frightening thing was, he couldn't seem to stop himself. One small part of his mind was screaming _NO! Stop it!_ And the rest was already forming the attack.

"Captain."

"Yeah?"

"May I have permission to kill him?" Jim jerked his head towards the man sitting next to him as he spoke, and his tone was icy cold and totally serious. "I'd be doing the whole world a favor. Eradicating a known pest – a useless pest. One I don't need to have hanging around."

It didn't take Simon's shocked gasp to tell Ellison he'd made a major blunder. He knew it the instant the words left his mouth.

"Jim!" The police captain jerked the cigar from his mouth.

There might have still been time to quickly apologize, to laugh and tousle Sandburg's hair and make sure he knew it was a joke. But the demon who seemed to have suddenly inhabited Jim Ellison's head didn't allow him to say the words; didn't allow him to make the conciliatory gesture.

Ellison turned to look at his partner – and felt his gut clench. He'd expected a reaction from Blair – anger, most certainly. A dagger glare from those tired, ocean-blue eyes. Retaliation in words – Sandburg was gifted with the ability for riposte. He hadn't expected…this.

Blair was staring at him as if he'd never seen him before, and his eyes were blank and dilated with shock. He didn't look angry, he looked devastated – demoralized. He was pale, except for flushed spots on either cheek; his mouth hung open just slightly, and he was breathing so lightly that even straining, Jim could barely hear it.

Blair swallowed – and spoke. But not to Jim. "Captain Banks – may I be excused, please?" The words were so soft they were barely there.

"Go on, Sandburg."

Banks scarcely got the reply out before Blair was bolting from the office – only pausing to shut the door very carefully behind him. Stifling silence filled the room, but only for a few moments.

"All right, Ellison – explain yourself."

The Sentinel couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Simon address him in a voice so cold and contemptuous. Slowly, he raised his gaze from contemplation of his lap, feeling his head throb with the motion.

"I can't."

"Look, Detective, I've heard you rag on Sandburg before, but you were always teasing. I've rarely heard you say anything so cruel to anyone, not seriously – least of all Blair."

Inside, Jim was wondering if there really _was_ something to the demon-possession theory. He hadn't ever intended to say those cutting things…had he? _Blair_ would probably support his claim that something evil had taken over his body; he tended to believe in that sort of thing.

"I'm not sure what made me say it."

"The last time you talked to him like that was when Alex Barnes came to Cascade." Banks paused, his dark eyes wary. "There isn't…?"

"No, no, I don't think so." Jim shook his head. "I don't know what made me say it," he repeated helplessly.

"Well, you're going to _un_ say it in short order. Got it? Go find Sandburg and make your apologies, and then we can get on with business."

Ellison shook his head again. "I think I'd better let him cool off a little while."

"Jim, I don't know that that's a good idea."

"I think I'm going to have to let him cool off for awhile, sir."

Simon stared at him in bafflement. "I'd think you'd want to clear things up as fast as possible."

"To clear things up, Simon, I'd have to have a reasonable explanation for it. I don't…yet." Jim was staring down at his lap again.

"I think it's a bad idea to let it go, Jim…a bad idea." Banks sighed, but returned his attention to the desk top with the stacked file folders. "But it's your call; he's your partner. Just get it settled fast, and get on with this investigation, all right?"

Jim's glance was full of resentment. He knew with certainty that the idiotic case with its idiotic garden statuary _['birdhouses, Jim…and whirligigs…'_ ] was the whole reason for this debacle. "Yes, Captain." He got to his feet, picked up the stack of files and headed for the door.

Out in the bullpen, he wasn't terribly surprised to see his desk vacant. He had cherished the faint hope that Blair might have settled there to sulk, but obviously it wasn't going to be that easy. Sandburg had evidently vacated the premises. Clenching his teeth, Jim dropped the folders and sat down, attempting to run a quick auditory scan for his missing partner.

Nothing. He couldn't even discern heartbeats of the other occupants in the room, let alone anywhere else. Heightened hearing had cut out again. Sighing, the Sentinel reached for the top file and opened it.

"Jim?" Ellison looked up from his perusal of the latest data on garden gnome thievery. "What?"

Joel Taggart was standing beside his desk, regarding him with concerned dark eyes. "Is everything okay with Blair?"

Jim opened his mouth to snap a reply, a harsh dismissal on his lips – and stopped. If anyone in Major Crimes cared about Blair, it was Joel. "Why?" he asked quietly.

"Because," the former Bomb Squad captain replied, "he came out of Simon's office looking like – well, I'm not exactly sure WHAT he looked like. 'Lost,' maybe is closest. Or stunned. And then he left in a big hurry. And now you're sitting there looking sort of the same way. Only not."

Ellison rested his aching head in cupped palms. "I said something to him that I shouldn't have, Joel. I was way out of line. I don't know what got into me. I hurt his feelings awfully, I know that. And now I'm sorry…but I don't want to go chasing after him, you know?" He sighed and rubbed his reddened, watery eyes. "And my allergies are kicking the shit out of me."

Taggart smiled, and shook his head. "I don't think Blair would be able to stay mad at you for long, Jim. You two are too close for that. Still, an apology wouldn't hurt…you know?" he echoed Jim's phrase gently.

"Yeah – I know." The Sentinel sighed again, deeply, and reached for the telephone. "I'd better track him down." He punched in numbers…and suddenly stiffened, hearing unmistakable ring tones from one of his desk drawers. "What the…?" He yanked open the drawer and froze.

Blair's cell phone lay there, the ringing abruptly cutting off as it went to Voice Mail. Blair had left his cell phone. And beside it….Jim's heart leaped into his throat and then seemed to fall to the pit of his stomach with a dull thud. Beside it rested Sandburg's official police pass. His cherished, closely-guarded, never-take-it-off police observer's pass.

"No, I can't locate him anywhere," Ellison snapped irritably, and pressed his fingertips against his temples. "Simon, I've told you and told you, my senses are all haywire! I can't pick up heartbeats, I can't pick up smells reliably. And my head's killing me, all right?"

Banks glared at his top detective with little sympathy. "If you hadn't basically told him you didn't want him around any more, you wouldn't be having to do this, you know!"

"I know that, dammit!" Ellison snatched up the telephone receiver and stabbed at the buttons.

He dialed Blair's office at Rainier. Answering machine.

He dialed the loft, and heard his own taped voice – with Blair's gurgles of laughter in the background of the recording: _"You've reached the home of Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. If you didn't want either one of us, dial more carefully next time. Leave a message at the beep…."_

 _Come on, Sandburg! Pick up!_ "Sandburg, it's me. If you're there, pick up the phone…please. It's important."

Nothing.

He checked with a few of the other departments in the police station on the off chance that Sandburg might have gone to chat with Dan Wolfe, or Cassie, or one of his other acquaintances – but no one had seen the grad student.

Jim shook his head ruefully and replaced the receiver in its cradle. "Nothing, Simon. He's probably somewhere on the Rainier campus – most likely setting up the exhibit he was working on."

"Why don't you go see?" Banks' voice was surprisingly gentle.

"I still don't know what to say."

"Go anyway."

"I'm sorry, Detective Ellison. Blair was here a little while ago, but he left." The tall, thin, redheaded young man who had been working on labeling artifacts, stared at Jim and shook his head helplessly. Jim, concentrating hard, managed to elevate his senses enough to check for signs of lying, but nothing came through. The college student was apparently telling the truth.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, sir. He just said he'd be gone for awhile, and that I could work as long as I cared to, and then leave when I needed to."

"All right." The detective fished out a business card and handed it to the younger man. "If you hear from him, will you call me, please? Any time."

The student looked at the card and nodded doubtfully. "Mr. Sandburg's not in any trouble, is he?"

"NO! No, no, of course not. He's my partner and roommate, and I…need to talk to him. As soon as possible," Jim added in a low voice.

"Okay, Detective." The young man pocketed the card and turned away, going back to his task.

Outside on the sidewalk once more, Jim tried calling home again, hoping against hope and leaving another heartfelt message. He called Major Crimes. He would have called Naomi, if he'd had any idea of how to reach her. He was tempted to ask for an APB on Blair's car, but didn't want to…yet.

 _Blair must be somewhere here on the campus._ Wracking his brain to figure out the most likely place his Guide might have gone, Jim strode purposefully in the direction of the library. _Why, oh why, oh_ _why_ _did my senses have to cut out NOW?_

He knew the answer quite well: his senses were inextricably and inexplicably tied with his emotions, and right now his emotions were snarled like a ball of yarn fought over by exuberant kittens.

After the library, he went to Hargrove Hall.

And then the Student Union building.

The gymnasium.

The exhibit hall, where Andy, the redheaded kid, still worked doggedly with the artifacts.

And then the library once more – just in case he'd missed Blair the first time.

Hargrove – Blair's office.

He called Simon again, just on the off chance.

Finally Jim had to admit he was temporarily beaten. If Blair was on Rainier's campus, he was somewhere the Sentinel didn't know to look. If he had left Cascade, there was no way Jim could find him, right now. With his senses on the fritz, he had no chance of locating his wayward Guide by heartbeat or scent. Physically more miserable than ever from the multitudes of pollen-laden trees on the campus, emotionally spent, Jim walked to his truck, shoulders slumped with dejection. He got in, and headed for Prospect Avenue.

He parked the Ford in his usual space, and cast a hopeful eye about for Blair's car. _He might have come home,_ he reasoned, _and just have been too mad to answer the phone._ But there was no sign of the Volvo. Concentrating fiercely as he entered the building, the detective listened for any signs of his missing partner – to no avail. But….

 _He_ _was_ _here – I'm sure of it!_ The moment Ellison entered the loft, he sensed something; something which told him that Blair had been there, not that long ago. But he wasn't here now…he'd come and gone.

Throat pinched with fear, Jim searched – and his discoveries nearly broke his heart. Blair's 'always packed and ready' bag was gone. His toothbrush, razor and hair things were gone from the bathroom. Most of his clothes remained, and he had apparently taken none of his books or other treasures. He had simply grabbed the essentials, and disappeared.

 _Eradicated…like a pest. 'One I don't need hanging around…' Oh Blair, what have I done?_

By eight o'clock that evening, the fickle spring weather had changed, and wind and rain off the Pacific lashed the windows and skylight of the loft. The temperature dropped by 15 degrees in the space of two hours. The rain had washed the air clear of most of the pollen, and Jim's sinuses were grateful. His headache had eased…his heartache had not.

Trying to think of every possibility, the detective searched their telephone book, the page where important personal numbers were written in. Finding the one he sought, Jim dialed and waited.

"Brother Jeremy? It's Jim Ellison, from Cascade…."

But even that was futile. Brother Jeremy promised that if Blair showed up at St. Sebastian's, he would let Jim know – and he was surprisingly gentle when Jim tried to explain his actions – but other than assurances and counsel, he couldn't really help.

The Sentinel paced, grinding his teeth. As long as he stayed here, in the loft, he could almost convince himself that Blair would come home soon; he'd come breezing in and fling his backpack onto the floor, chattering animatedly about the exhibit he'd been working on. Asking whether Jim had come up with anything that might help them with the 'garden gnome' case. Complaining about the weather turning nasty, and shivering, soaked and chilled in his lightweight jacket….

"Dammit!"

There was no way he could stay here any longer and not do something – anything. Aimlessly driving the streets of Cascade would be easier than wearing out the flooring. With all due deliberation, Jim walked over to the door. He took down his holster and buckled it on, checked to make sure his gun was loaded and slid it into place. He donned his leather jacket, and snagged his Jags cap from its peg. Returning to the living room, he was just reaching to pick up his cell phone when it rang.

"Yeah, Ellison!"

" _Detective Ellison? This is Andy Michaels, from Rainier – from this afternoon, you remember?"_

"I remember." Jim was clutching the phone so hard his fingers hurt.

" _You said to call you if I heard from Blair—"_

"And?"

" _I didn't_ _hear_ _from him, but…but…I was walking to my car just now, and…"_

"And WHAT?" Jim fairly yelped the question.

" _I found him, Detective – at the bottom of the stairs to the basement entrance into Huntingdon Hall. That's the hall where the exhibit is, you know?"_

"He's hurt?"

" _Yeah, kinda. He twisted his ankle…said he tripped on the steps…. He seems kinda confused – he's sopping wet; looks like he's been out in the rain ever since it started coming down—"_

"I'm on my way." Jim streaked out of the loft, slamming the door behind him, still clutching the phone as he clattered down the flights of stairs. He flung himself into his truck, and totally disregarding protocol, slapped the detachable light onto the dashboard and flipped on the siren. _If this doesn't qualify for an emergency…well, too damn bad!_

Ten minutes later he pulled into the parking lot closest to Huntingdon. Andy Michaels was waiting for him at the door.

"Most of the offices are locked, but I have a key to one of the conference rooms, so I put him in there; there's a couch…."

Ellison cocked his head just slightly, and found what he sought: Sandburg's heartbeat thundered in his ears. Without waiting for Andy Michaels to show him the way, ignoring the student's slightly puzzled look, Jim pelted down the corridor towards that sound.

Sandburg was huddled on a short divan near the windows, head down, shivering so hard that Jim could sense it from across the room. In the muted glow from the canister lights in the ceiling, his hair gleamed wetly, hanging in limp strands that concealed his features. Droplets of water fell rhythmically onto the carpeted floor from his hair, his clothes, his fingertips, his nose.

"Sandburg!" Jim was across the room with a few quick strides, and crouching in front of his drenched partner.

Blair jumped, startled at the Sentinel's sudden appearance. "Jim! How did you – where did you – oh…Andy?" He shrank back, infinitesimally. "I didn't want him to call you…"

"Where have you BEEN?"

Blair stared down at his lap, where his shaking hands were clasped tightly together. "Ahhh, well…."

"Never mind." Ellison stripped Blair's soaked jacket from the quivering shoulders, and hastily replaced it with his own. "We'll talk about it later; right now the important thing is getting you dried off and warmed up – and home."

Sandburg couldn't suppress a relieved sigh as he snuggled into the warmth of Jim's coat. Still, he tried to maintain his reserve. "I didn't think it would matter to you," he muttered bitterly, "whether _a useless pest_ like me was wet or not – unless it got your truck seats damp, or something!"

Jim flinched at the words. "Chief, I was way wrong to say that – and I know I'm in deep _kimchee_ with you right now. But please – let's tackle that later, okay? I've been going out of my mind worrying about you!" Gently, he began checking for injuries. "Andy said you'd hurt your ankle…? And how did you get so wet, anyway?" He glanced up at the watching, openly curious Andy and smiled – that brilliant Ellison smile that he used with such effect…so seldom. "Andy, I can take it from here – thank you for all your help."

"Glad to do it, Detective. Blair, I'll see ya tomorrow, probably? Hope you're all right. Just turn off the lights when you go out; the doors'll lock behind you." Still curious but willing to let it go, Andy headed for the exit.

Ellison said a hasty goodbye and returned his attention to his sodden Guide. "Blair, are you hurt?"

"Wrenched my ankle when I slipped on the steps – and I think I've got blisters on the other foot," Sandburg admitted reluctantly. He shivered convulsively, and sneezed. "Mostly just wet – cold." A rueful little chuckle escaped.

"Normal, ya know?"

"Blisters?" Jim repeated, incredulously. "Can you walk?" he went on, wrapping an arm about Blair to assist him to his feet. "The truck's not too far…."

"If we take it slow."

Taking it slow was a necessity; Sandburg's left ankle didn't accept weight without protest, and he hissed with pain at every attempted step. Ellison was tempted to simply pick his partner up and carry him through the downpour, but he decided Blair had had enough humiliation for the day and resisted the impulse. By the time they reached the truck, Jim was nearly as wet as Blair. They clambered into their seats, Jim checked Blair's seatbelt before fastening his own, and they headed for the loft – at a sedate, strictly-legal rate of speed.

***** "You getting any warmer, Chief?"

"Not much – the heater in this thing sucks, Jim; you know that."

Ellison sighed. He couldn't argue the point.

"Jim – we've got a few minutes here, before we get ho—back to the loft."

 _Home_ _, Chief. It's your home._

"So why don't we go ahead with what we need to talk about, and get it over with? Rather than letting it hang over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, or something?"

"Chief…."

"Jim…."

After a silence that stretched longer than either of them was comfortable with, Jim spoke again. "Chief…Blair…I'm so sorry. I don't know how to explain what happened, because I don't have the slightest clue what made me say those things."

"Other than that it was the truth?" Blair murmured despondently.

"NOT the truth, Sandburg! NEVER the truth! You're not a pest – well, I guess sometimes you are, but only in a good way." Jim essayed a small laugh – which died off almost immediately when Blair didn't join in. "And you're damn sure not useless! You know that's not how I really feel. And damn it, I sure DO need you hanging around – all the time, buddy, all the time!"

"Something made you say it, Jim."

"Yeah, I …uh…I figured I'd see how you felt about the idea of demon possession, since I can't come up with anything else to explain it. If you don't go for that, I thought maybe I'd try for a plea of temporary insanity." Ellison rattled off.

Amazingly, Blair laughed – a surprised, hearty, _real_ laugh. "Jim, I've lived with a real live Sentinel for over three years. I've encountered psychos, shamans, ghosts, psychics, bombers, spirit animals….After two encounters with Garrett Kincaid, I am like  so cool with the demon possession thing."

Jim relaxed a little, laughing too. Things weren't quite back to normal yet, but they were getting there.

Arrival at the loft ended the conversation. Jim helped Blair alight and assisted his limping Guide into the building. The elevator deposited them on the third floor, and they walked quietly to their apartment. Ellison unlocked the door and ushered Blair inside, piloting the grad student towards his room.

"Wet clothes off, NOW."

"Do you hear me arguing?" Blair struggled to remove Jim's jacket. "I don't sit around being cold and wet by choice, man!"

Jim helped him strip it off, and then went to hang up both their coats. Deciding that he might as well follow his own advice, the Sentinel went upstairs to change into dry things too; when he came down, he lit the gas fireplace and turned a burner on beneath the teakettle. Blair, no doubt, could do with a hot cup of tea. Then the detective reached for the phone, realizing he needed to make one call right away.

" _Banks."_

"Simon? Jim. He's home. Talk to you tomorrow."

" _Thank God. Tomorrow is fine. Goodnight, Jim."  
_

A few minutes later, the younger man limped slowly out of his room, clad in sweats and heavy socks. Jim tossed him the towel he had waiting on the kitchen counter.

"Dry the locks, Rapunzel."

Sandburg snorted a small laugh and sat down on the couch, rubbing his hair.

"You hungry?"

"Starved, man."

Without further comment, Jim set about concocting sandwiches. By the time Blair's hair was merely damp, instead of sodden, a filled plate accompanied by a steaming cup of tea sat in front of him on the coffee table. With a mumbled 'thanks,' the Guide began to eat ravenously. Jim, realizing that he hadn't eaten anything since lunch himself, joined him.

When the sandwiches were gone, Ellison cleaned up the kitchen, then disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a few moments later, his hands full of medical supplies, and sat down on the couch next to Blair. Sandburg eyed him warily over his teacup.

"Let me check the ankle, Chief?" It was phrased as a request, but a request that the Sentinel didn't expect to be denied. Reluctantly, Blair raised his foot and shifted sideways. Jim turned too, resting the injured ankle in his lap. "Relax, Sandburg, I'm not intending to perform surgery, here."

Blair emitted a soft huff of laughter and leaned back against the arm of the sofa. Very gently, Jim eased the sock down and the sweatpants up, exposing a badly swollen ankle ornamented with purple bruises.

"Ouch, Sandburg, you did quite a number on this, didn't you?" Sentinel-sensitive fingers pressed lightly; moved and pressed again, then carefully rotated Blair's foot. "Sorry….easy…breathe, Chief." Ellison gently patted his partner and reached for the roll of Ace bandage he'd set on the coffee table. "If we wrap this and ice it and you keep it elevated tonight, you should be able to walk on it okay by tomorrow." He carefully began the strapping process, laying the bandage in precise figure eights. "Now…."

"Now what?" Blair, his head leaning against the back of the couch, didn't open his eyes. He was gratefully sinking into the welcome sensations of being warm, dry, fed, and his hurts soothed.

"Now let's have that talk." Ellison carefully kept his face neutral and his hands steady, smoothing the stretchy bandage, but he felt Blair twitch and tense. "First, I get to apologize—"

"You already did."

"I think it deserves more than one quick run-through," the Sentinel said somberly. "I'm sorry, Blair. I didn't mean what I said. Not at all. I hurt you and I have no justification for the way I acted."

"Well, you did mention the demon possession…."

"Gonna buy that, are you?"

"For now."

"Where'd you go, anyway? I tried to call you – and when I saw you'd ditched your phone and your pass…." Jim's voice trembled a little. "And you weren't anywhere! I called everywhere and everyone I could think of – went through the whole precinct, all over Rainier….And you took your bag…."

"I just drove," Blair replied softly. "I knew I had to get out of there before I said something I'd regret. So I just got into my car and headed out. I took my bag because I wasn't sure how long I'd stay pissed at you. I drove until I wasn't mad anymore, and then I turned around to come back."

"Yeah?" Jim wrapped the last few inches of Ace bandage and reached for the little metal clip to secure it. "You must have gone a long way."

"I was pretty mad….Actually, though, to be truthful, not all that far – at least I didn't think it was all that far. Unfortunately…" Blair's voice dwindled into silence, and the detective glanced keenly at him.

"Unfortunately what?"

"I ran out of gas on the way back."

Jim stared as everything clicked into place. "So that's how you got so wet! You damned…hell, Sandburg, why didn't you just stay in your car?"

Blair smiled without opening his eyes. "I thought I'd be cold…and lonely."

"Seems to me you ended up cold and lonely anyway, kid. So…you walked. Wasn't there any place you could have called me from? Where'd you get stranded, anyway?"

"Just this side of Silverdale."

That took a few seconds to process. Then:

"SILVERDALE! That's nearly fifteen miles…Sandburg! You walked from Silverdale?" Abruptly, Jim began removing his roommate's socks again, muttering beneath his breath. "You said something about blisters…jeez, Chief!" He winced in sympathy as Blair's right foot was revealed. "Ow – damn, kid!" He reached for the box of band-aids and a tube of antibiotic ointment, and there was silence for a little while. "How's that?" Jim asked at last, carefully easing the sock back into place.

"'S good…." Blair murmured drowsily. But when Ellison moved to put the first aid things away, the Guide opened his eyes. "Jim – wait a minute."

"What is it? Something else hurt? I'll get an ice pack for your ankle, if you'll let me get up—" Jim started to ease his partner's foot onto a pillow.

"Wait – it's not the ankle. I think I've figured something out," Blair declared, sounding more awake. "Why you got so mad…."

Jim grimaced. "Demon possession?" he offered weakly.

"Maybe," with a wry chuckle, "but I've thought of something else, too. A reason. And it doesn't just apply to you; it applies to Simon and me, too…but more to you, man."

"Chief, sometimes you scare me—"

"Listen, I'm serious."

"Okay, okay…shoot."

"It's a – guy thing…and an Army thing…and a cop thing. And most of all, a Sentinel thing," Blair said earnestly. "You ever read any of those articles where they talk about communication between men and women?" he asked, to Jim's surprised amusement.

"Not recently, Darwin."

"Well, according to studies, guys are…are…fixers. Ya know? There's a problem, so…we find a solution. We fix it. It's kinda hardwired into us." Blair leaned forward, blue eyes fastened intently on his Sentinel's face. "See?"

"Okay…with you so far."

"You're a cop…Simon's a cop. Cops are fixers by profession. Something's wrong, so they fix it. They catch criminals and see that they're punished. Problem solvers. It's what you do, as a cop." More animated now, Blair sat up straight, his hands beginning their characteristic gesturing motions. "The armed forces – the same way. Problem solvers, all over the world. When you were a Ranger, you did it. And even more so because you were a medic." He smiled, gesturing at his bandaged ankle. "See? You're still doing it. And me…I'm your Guide, right? It's my job to handle problems that come up because of your senses, right? How many times, when something has happened to you, has Simon said 'Sandburg – FIX it! Just FIX him!'?"

Jim chuckled. "Breathe, Chief, breathe." Gently, he pushed Blair back to recline against the cushions once more.

"And you – a Sentinel," Blair gasped in a breath and resumed his impromptu lecture. "You're there to protect – to prevent problems, and fix them if something goes wrong. It's ingrained!"

"Okay, I'll grant you all that, but—"

"And the point, Jim, is that I COULDN'T fix the problems today!" Sandburg finished, waving his hands about wildly. His expressive face was contorted with earnestness. "You needed me to help, and there wasn't anything I could do. I couldn't help you deal with the allergies…I didn't have a chance to try to help you with the dials, or to get a handle on your fluctuating senses, because Simon interrupted us…and—" he gulped and looked down, cheeks flushed. "—and I laughed when you got so mad about…about the…case. I laughed at you."

"Chief…"

"You were miserable, and you depended on me to fix things – Simon depends on me to fix things. And I didn't. I let you down. I failed you. No wonder you were pissed at me, man." Blair sighed and dropped his chin into his cupped hands, abruptly ending his discourse.

Jim blinked a couple of times. And then very slowly and gently, as if making a dedicated attempt not to frighten a small wild creature, he reached out and laid his hand on Blair's knee.

"Blair."

A soft sound of inquiry was his only reply.

"You're trying to take all the blame for this, and I'm not going to let you."

"But Jim, it makes sense, doesn't it?" Blair still hadn't raised his head.

"Oh, it makes sense. It makes a lot of sense. It's a dandy theory, Chief. But it doesn't excuse my actions…does it?"

Blair didn't reply.

"Blair?"

"No, I guess not," the Guide said at last, in a whisper. "But—"

"Sandburg—" Knowing Blair could keep on arguing indefinitely, Jim let some authority – and a little more humor – creep into his tone. "Blair. How about this? If I accept your apology for not being omniscient and omnipotent, will you accept mine for being a self-centered, selfish, cruel bastard? And then we call it quits and forget the whole damned day and start over again?"

The Botticelli-angel face that was Blair Sandburg crinkled with laughter and relief. He lunged toward his Sentinel, hands outstretched. "YES! YES!"

"Easy there – careful of the leg, Chief." Carefully cradling his partner's injured ankle in his lap, Ellison leaned across the distance separating them on the couch and wrapped an arm about his Guide, pulling Blair into a tight hug. "It's okay…it's okay….Shhh, shhh, just hang on. Everything's gonna be okay now."

And for the first time in the whole devastating day, Jim Ellison knew with absolute certainty that he was right.

 _Maybe Spring's not quite so bad after all!_

Fini 


End file.
